An Unlikely Brotherhood
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: c.900AD. Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor are entangled by bonds of blood, history, politics, hatred and love.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – I was searching through the stories listed under Salazar Slytherin and was struck by inspiration. Years ago, in _Slytherin Blood_, I sketched out the idea that Gryffindor, Slytherin,et alwere actually of very different blood/descent/race, thereby explaining their differences in ideology. So how did they become such good friends and trusted companions? This story will focus on the development of Gryffindor's and Slytherin's friendship.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. I don't own Salazar Slytherin, either. Worst luck.

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**An Unlikely Brotherhood **

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c.900AD

A hungry boy has no scruples.

Salazar Slytherin – it was not his true name, but it would do – watched with amusement as a young, scrawny boy walked innocently past a high-piled fruit barrow, his grubby hand darting out, swiftly, to snag an apple while the owner's attention was directed elsewhere.

An enterprising boy.

Threading his way through the market day crowd, Salazar walked casually up behind the young thief, dropped a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. He felt the automatic flinch, the impulse towards flight – he tightened his grip, and the boy froze.

A sensible boy.

He hustled the boy into a small, filthy alley. When they were out of sight of the crowd, he said, "Turn around and look at me."

Slowly, with extreme reluctance, his young captive turned, and lifted his eyes upwards, so that they could look upon each other for the first time.

Salazar sucked in a breath.

"What are you called?" he asked, when he could control his voice again.

"Godric," the boy said, his chin tilted defiantly. "Godric…Gryffindor." His eyes – clear, utterly opaque blue – dared him to challenge his claim.

"An ambitious name," Salazar murmured, looking down at his mutinous captive. "A hero's name. Are you worthy of it?"

"I will be."

* * *

The stranger was slim, dark, and beardless. In this village of tall, fair, hairy men, he stood out like a crow among sparrows – an impression reinforced by his eyes, a strange amber brown, almost feral in their fixed intensity.

"Who are you?" he asked, fascinated by this exotic intrusion into his life. "How did you see me? I was…" Abruptly he stopped, sucked in his breath.

"You were distracting them?" the stranger asked, one eyebrow quirked.

Godric shook his head vehemently. "No, I was trying my best to pass unnoticed–"

"You were directing their attention elsewhere. And a very good job you did, too, Godric Gryffindor. I did not think to find a wizardling among these peasants."

A wizardling? No! "I am no witch," he hissed, tugging at his shirt and revealing the crude, carved wooden cross he wore about his throat. "I am a faithful son of the Church." He squirmed, trying to escape the heavy grip on his shoulder, but it would not loosen.

Those strange yellow eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. "Faith has nothing to do with it, boy. It's blood that matters. Who are your parents?"

Godric flushed, and looked away, swallowing convulsively. He had no parents. For as long as he could remember, he'd lived in this small village, an orphan boy forced to live on his own wits. The priest had named him Godric, and he'd named himself Gryffindor, a strong name, a heroic name.

It was the only thing he had, the only thing that could not be taken away from him.

"I have no parents," he said stiffly, squaring his shoulders and looking the stranger right in the eyes. "I am myself."

* * *

"So," Salazar said, impressed by the boy's determination. He slackened his grip, allowed him to squirm away, knowing he would not bolt. "You will not live up to that name here, in this small village."

Godric Gryffindor shrugged rebelliously. He was, Salazar thought, about twelve years old, not quite out of boyhood yet. By the look of him, when he was grown he would be as tall and strong as the rest of his cursed Saxon countrymen.

"When I'm big enough, I'll leave. I'll find my way to the King, and lay my sword at his feet–" Caught up in his fantasies, the boy vibrated with intensity, his pinched, childish face vivid with energy and excitement. "But," he trailed off, deflating a little, "I do not know the way."

"South," Salazar said dryly, "and east of here."

"You know the King's house?" Godric asked excitedly. "You know the way? Have you seen him? Is he as tall as they say in the tales?"

"I have seen the king, once. But he has no love for our kind, young Gryffindor, nor any wish to believe us more than tales."

The boy brushed this warning aside with blithe disinterest. Nor did he react in any way to the words 'our kind'. "Can you take me to him? Will you take me with you, on the road?"

"I am not going that way, boy. I am going home."

"Oh." The disappointment in those clear blue eyes was almost comical. "But –"

Salazar, hardened, bitter and cynical, found himself softening. He hardened his heart, deliberately recalling all the old, terrible memories of war, betrayal and slaughter, reminding himself the boy was Saxon kind and raised amongst Muggles.

"When you are old enough, Godric Gryffindor, I have no doubt you will achieve everything you wish for." In his experience, such success was often double-edged. "Remember – south and east."

He turned on his heel and walked away, rejoining the milling crowd in the busy marketplace.

"Wait!" he heard the young voice shout. "Wait – sir." Swift, impatient footsteps forced their way through the crowd behind him, and with a sense of inevitability, he knew that he would never be free of the boy, now.

On the hinge of such meetings, Fate turned –

"Take me with you," the boy begged. "At least part of the way – I won't be a burden, I swear. I can find my own food, and look after myself…"

Salazar did not turn around. However, he slowed his pace and allowed Godric to catch up.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – Thank you to all those kind enough to review the previous chapter and tell me what you thought. And to all you lurkers (come on, I know you're out there) I hope you're enjoying this too.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. Any historical facts may not be entirely accurate. Don't sue.

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**Chapter Two**

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It did not take Salazar very long to discover his new companion's secret. Sitting by the small, compact fire, warming his hands, he watched the boy shiver, clutching his thin, inadequate garments around his skinny body, starting at every noise in the dark.

But every time he saw Salazar watching, Godric would force himself to relax, to look blasé, as if he camped outside in the wild every night.

"How old are you, boy?" he asked.

"Fifteen," Godric said promptly.

Salazar looked at the small, still rounded face, the thin, bony wrists. He raised a brow. Waited.

The boy scowled sulkily. "Thirteen."

Even that, he thought, was too high. But he let it pass.

"Have you always lived in that village?" How did a wizard child come to be abandoned among such peasants? He did not have the look of the villagers; Salazar knew of those occasional freaks of nature that cropped up, born of Muggle parents, but he would wager Godric was not one of them.

"Yes." The childish face twisted into a determined scowl. "The priest said I was left on the steps of the church. He looked after me, until –" His breath hitched, and Salazar's eyes narrowed.

"Until?"

Godric's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "I hated it there. I'm never going back."

Until his magic manifested. Until the young orphan showed signs of something the priest's simple, superstitious mind could not encompass.

A twig snapped in the darkness.

Godric froze, gathered his power around him, and seemed to fade away. Salazar, his wand out and ready, stared into the darkness, his senses searching the surrounding forest. With a primal, instinctive chill he caught a glimpse of firelight reflecting in golden, predatory eyes. Heart tripping, he whispered under his breath, casting his fear out, projecting it into the predator's mind – swiftly, it turned and slunk away, leaving them alone once more.

He turned back to the almost invisible boy. "It's nothing," he said, "just a badger."

Slowly, Godric faded back into sight. He cast a quick look at Salazar, who did not remark on the incredible transition. "For a moment there, I thought it was a wolf…" His deliberately casual voice was not quite steady.

"No." Salazar smiled crookedly. "Only a badger."

* * *

Later that night, Godric lay huddled on the ground, shivering. He remembered the broken twig, the sudden terror, and his instinctive reaction, fading away –

The strange, dark man he'd attached himself to had not been surprised.

_I did not think to find a wizardling among these peasants._

"Are you…a wizard?" he asked, very softly. It was all he could bring himself to ask.

In the dying firelight, those strange amber-brown eyes glowed. "Yes."

There was a small silence, as Godric slowly absorbed the truth – and the unspoken implications – of that life-changing statement. Salazar stared into the fire, allowing him his privacy.

"Your hands – after that badger – I saw them. They were shaking." Then he paused, as a thought struck him. "It wasn't a badger, was it."

A soft, huffed, rueful laugh. "No."

"But you have magic." Struggling to understand, Godric sat up, stared across at his companion. "If you are a wizard, why were you afraid? Why didn't you just kill it?" Deep in his heart, Godric yearned for bravery and strength. He'd thought, just for a minute, that the stranger – the wizard – would be able to help him…

"Killing anything with magic – even a wolf – is a dangerous thing, boy. Sometimes it's better to use cold steel – there's less of a price, that way. And besides," here, he laughed strangely, "what if I'd failed? Like all mortal tools, magic is not infallible – and wolves have sharp teeth."

Godric did not understand any of it. Bitterly angry, disillusioned and disappointed, he lashed out. "That's cowardly!"

"Cowardly?" Salazar reached out, warmed his hands at the glowing embers. "No, it is not, young Gryffindor. Even now, though you do not wish to, you understand that –"

"The great heroes would not have been afraid!" he shot back, biting his lip.

"_I am no hero."_ The reply came so quickly, so viciously, that Godric started. Wide-eyed, he stared at the suddenly narrowed eyes, the thin, haughty features, vivid with swift passion –

And then he blinked, and the sudden anger was gone, as if it had never been. But Godric would always remember it…

* * *

They continued on their way in the morning. The sky was overcast, and it was drizzling constantly as they trudged heavily down the muddy, rutted track, each lost in their own thoughts and recriminations. Godric was subdued and sullen, and Salazar was in no mood to cajole him out of it – today's journey was very different from the gentle, sunlit anticipation of yesterday afternoon.

It had been a long time since he'd last travelled with an apprentice, especially such a young, undisciplined one. And this time he was saddled with a Saxon brat, no less – red-headed, impatient and stubborn, obsessed with courage and heroism, constantly seeking something that could only come from within.

_The great heroes would not have been afraid!_

The Gods only knew that Salazar was no hero. It had been years – near half a century, at least – since he'd fled Wales, the silence of the dead and the keening grief of the living haunting him, the Saxon victory songs taunting him –

Wolves had sharp teeth, and sometimes magic was not enough.

He'd thought he could accomplish something. He'd thought that he could live in the real world, not shut himself away like the Unfaithful in his mountain valley, cowering behind his barrier – but though the wizards of the Cymry were powerful, the sheer weight of Saxon numbers had worn them down. Again and again, they'd retreated into the mountains while the Saxons destroyed everything in their path, trying to burn them out.

It was enough to break even the most cynical heart.

"Excuse me? Sir?" Godric's voice interrupted his bitter reverie, "there's a man." His voice was strange, slightly choked. "He's…he's floating in the middle of the road."

Indeed he was. A short, round man dressed in rich crimson robes, puffed up with his own self-importance – ridiculous, out here in the muddy wilderness. Salazar watched in sardonic amusement as the wizard hovered a full six inches off the ground, clearly concerned for the beautifully embroidered hem of his robes.

"Edgar Aethulfsson," he said flatly.

Godric caught note of his tone, and looked up at him warily; Edgar did not.

"_You,_" the Saxon said, trying to look authoritative. "You are not welcome here. You were told not to return –"

"You have no power to stop me coming or going, Aethulfsson. Your father's council has no authority over me."

"The Wizengamot –"

Salazar spat on the ground. "That for your Wizengamot. Now get out of my way." He moved forwards menacingly, deliberately stepping into a puddle and sending up a spray of muddy water. The round, officious fool took a hasty step back, almost losing his balance, but regaining it at the last minute.

Godric hurried along beside him, keeping very close, as they forged past.

"You're a dying breed, -------! The Clans can't last forever. We _will _unite –"

Salazar's hand clenched white on his wand. For a long, long moment, he teetered on the edge of murder, before a soft, tentative touch brought him back to himself. Godric was watching with wide, shocked eyes.

Very slowly, very deliberately, Salazar drew in a deep breath, let in out just as slowly, and then began to walk away. Behind them, with no idea how close he had come to a slow, painful death, Edgar Aethulfsson vanished with an ill-tempered implosion of sound.

"He called you -------," Godric said cautiously.

"It was my name, once. A long time ago."

Salazar's tone was quelling and dismissive, but he could see, by Godric's frowning, pensive expression, that the questions would come. But not now. He could not handle them now…

They walked on in awkward, strained silence.

* * *

A/N – "-----" as Salazar's true name. I just watched the Layer Cake yesterday, where the main character's name was XXXX. I thought it was a funky conceit.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – Historical note – (extremely general):

c.400AD – Romans withdraw their legions from their colony of Britannia, leaving the poor British to fight the invading Saxons on their own.

c.450-550AD – Arthur. You know the drill. Quasi-historical Romano-Celtic war leader, 9 battles and peace, if only for a time. When he fell, the Saxons overwhelmed Britain and took it for their own.

c.550-900AD – Anglo-Saxon England divided into a number of kingdoms (Wessex, Mercia etc) all coexisting uneasily with each other, the Scots, the Welsh and the marauding Vikings.

Athelstan (895-939, ruled 924-939) is generally regarded as the first king of 'England', the other kings (Scottish, Welsh and Saxon) submitting to him and his rule.

1066AD – Well, I'm assuming you all know what happened in 1066. If you really don't know, it's not important to this story.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP canon. However, since JKR tells us so little about the Founders, I thought I might experiment.

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**CHAPTER 3**

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"There's so much I don't understand," Godric said plaintively. He was seated on an old, rickety wooden bridge, his arms on the railing, his legs dangling out over the water. He watched the small, trickling stream flow by beneath him, his eyes narrowed absently in thought.

Sprawled beside him, leaning his back against the railing, Salazar gave him a sidelong look. "At least you admit it. That's the first step."

Godric scowled. "Are you laughing at me?" Since the ugly confrontation four days ago, Salazar had regained his enigmatic humour. Sometimes it infuriated Godric.

"No, boy, not at you." He tipped his head back, his long, thick black hair glowing in the bright sun. "It's when you think you know everything that the troubles begin."

"Do you mean that wizard four days ago?" He remembered the ridiculously luxurious robes, the insecure, almost strident protestations of authority. Salazar, with his slim, coiled body, vivid amber eyes and haughty aquiline features made the floating Saxon look like a swollen, posturing butterball.

An eagle and a titmouse.

Salazar's mouth twisted. "Aethulfsson is a contemptuous fool. His father, however, is a dangerous one; he has his own version of the future, and wants to impose it on the rest of us. Unity," he said scornfully. "Unity, under one council, his Wizengamot – pah."

Godric thought about that. Quite frankly, he couldn't see anything wrong with it, but he knew better than to say so. "Is he a lord amongst wizards, this Aethulf?" he asked, clumsily turning the conversation.

Salazar was still scowling. "A petty, jumped-up Saxon chieftain? A cunning, uncouth barbarian – no, he is no true Lord. There are other, greater lords amongst wizards, but they have simply withdrawn into their own realities. Hidden kingdoms, last sanctuaries…"

He stopped, his mouth taut, his eyes very dark and bitter. Godric saw with dismay that Salazar was descending into one of his black moods.

"But I have heard those legends!" Godric exclaimed, trying to regain the previous light-heartedness. "You mean to say they are true?"

There was a small silence. Salazar looked out over the stream, not speaking. "In a sense," he said finally. "The great Lords exist, but they have ceased to make any impact on the real world. Do you see? Men like Aethulf – they lead because they have stepped forward and declared themselves leaders, and because there is no one left to oppose them."

"But you opposed them, once, didn't you? Isn't that why you were," he stammered, "why Aethulfsson said you were not welcome back?"

Salazar stirred, his eyes slowly coming back into focus. "Yes. Yes, I opposed them. And it was enough, for a time –" Deliberately, he stopped. Godric had the sense that he forced himself to relax, to release the black, bitter tension –

"Come, young Gryffindor," he said, standing up, dusting off his old, once-fine tunic and breeches. "We have some time to go, before we stop for the night." He extended his hand to Godric.

Sighing, Godric accepted the assistance and hauled himself up. There were times when Salazar could be the best of companions. He would answer any number of his eager questions, pointing out wildlife and explaining their ways, showing him their tracks and explaining how to read and follow them. He knew all the ways of birds and beasts, claiming that he could talk to them, and he knew a great deal about herb lore and the ways of nature. These things, he had told Godric once, were the fundamental basis of magic – not incantations, diagrams and sacrifices, but a sound knowledge of the world around him, and an understanding of the natural forces that drove it.

Other times, though, he was moody and withdrawn, his tongue sharp enough to draw blood and his every observation double edged, mocking and ironic. As much patience as Salazar had with birds and beasts, he had very little with mortals: he hated Saxons, whom he said had taken the land away from his people and driven them into isolation – Godric had tentatively pointed out that the invasion had been centuries ago, the Sea-wolves long since domesticated, and had been clouted for his pains. Nor did Salazar have any use for 'Muggles', as he called non-magical people, who, as he said acidly, cowered in their villages hoping their superstitions and primitive piety would preserve them from the darkness beyond the reach of their fires.

But Godric, though he might not agree with everything Salazar said, could not doubt the force of his personality or the power of his fascination; when Salazar was smiling and enthused, he could make Godric feel as if he was the luckiest boy in the world, to have such a mentor. The past week had been one of the richest, most satisfying periods of his life, as he basked in Salazar's attention and opened himself cautiously to a world he had never imagined.

"Is it far to the camp site?" he asked, his feet reminding him of the long hours of walking they'd already done today.

Salazar grinned at his poorly veiled inquiry. "No camp site tonight. If you can bear a few miles more, we will sleep in a real bed tonight. There is a village not too far away."

Godric brightened at the prospect of a real bed, rather than cold, hard earth and a rolled up cloak. Picking up his pace, he forged ahead, almost skipping in anticipation, while behind him he could feel Salazar's amusement.

"Well?" he demanded, turning around and laughing at Salazar's deliberate pace. "Aren't you coming?"

Salazar laughed, and hurried.

* * *

It was a small village, with only one inn – a hedge-tavern, really – but it was warm, the food was good, and the ale was thick and dark. Godric wolfed his food down, then eyed Salazar's hungrily – eyes glinting, Salazar slid his half-finished stew across to him, and watched in amusement as he devoured it.

"I thought you would forage for your own food," he said dryly, "not take mine away from me. You are an expensive child."

Godric leaned back and patted his full, finally satisfied stomach, smiling in blissful contentment. "I am a growing boy," he said smugly. "All the women in the village said so."

"I have no doubt of it." Salazar, by some magic of charisma, caught the barmaid's eye and signaled for another round. When it came, he drained it in one, long draught and stood up from the table. "I'm up to bed, boy. Don't stay down here too long." And with that casual admonition, the closest he ever came to paternal concern, he went upstairs.

Accustomed to fending for himself, Godric was not concerned at being left alone among a group of strange men. He sipped at his ale for a while, looking around him, listening to their conversations and their concerns, immersing himself for a time in the life of a small Muggle village –

"You. Boy. You came in earlier, with a man I never thought to see again." A quiet voice spoke from just behind him, and he turned to see a dark-robed man watching him with grave, dark eyes – sharp, observant eyes, eyes that saw more than most.

"If you mean Salazar, then yes, I did." He eyed the newcomer in some fascination. Surely, this man was a wizard, like Salazar. Godric still had trouble accustoming himself to the thought.

The wizard raised his brows, laughing. "Salazar? Is that what he's calling himself now? Christ, what an ungodly name. Well, I suppose that's what comes of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land –"

"But he's an unbeliever," Godric blurted out in surprise. "Why would he… I mean…"

"Why would he bother? Those lands have been holy for far, far longer than you might think, boy. They hold centuries of ancient, hidden secrets, for those brave enough – mad enough – to seek them out." The wizard smiled sharply. "God knows – Salazar, was it? – was mad when he left."

Godric scowled. "Why are you telling me this?"

The wizard's eyes narrowed, and for the first time Godric felt a flash of unease. "You're cautious, boy. And loyal – yes, loyal to a man you've known for, what, a whole week? Do you think I pose a threat to your precious Salazar?"

"Yes," Godric said bluntly. His hand clenched around the handle of his tankard, and he tensed, bracing himself for action. Suddenly the friendly, genial wizard seemed vaguely threatening, the homely atmosphere in the inn suddenly sinister and chill. "Yes, I think you do."

"Then why sit here so casually, boy? Surely, if I'm here to murder you in your sleep –"

Godric's eyes up to see Salazar approach, as if he had heard Godric's call.

"Enough, Gryffydd." Godric recognized the cool, deceptive danger of that voice. A slender, elegant hand clasped the wizard's shoulder. It seemed to be a light, casual grip, but the wizard's face suddenly paled, his eyes suddenly strained and wild. "The boy has no part in this."

"The boy has every part in this," the wizard – Gryffydd – ground out, trying to shake off Salazar's iron grip. It did not work, and he shrugged, as if he was not affected. "You come back, and the next day you pick up this boy? Every wizard between Dover and York is aware of your journey, and is busily calculating what it might mean."

"It means," Salazar said in that same dangerous tone, "that I have returned from nearly fifty years of exile, and have no wish to do anything but return to my home and watch my apples grow in peace. And the boy is on his way to see the king. He wishes to be a hero."

But the wizard's eyes were dark and angry. "You've been away too long, _Salazar. _Things have changed. The temper of the times has changed. Your archaic beliefs, your outdated dreams – there is no place for you anymore. The world has moved on without you."

All through this bitter, terrible clash, the villagers had continued on as if there was not a terrible quarrel brewing under their very noses. Godric watched them, confused, wondering how they could fail to hear Gryffydd's vicious words, or see Salazar's white, enraged face and his white-knuckled grip –

"And what about you, boy?" Gryffydd continued, despite Salazar's punishing grip. "Why do you stay with him? Do you know what he is? He is an oath breaker, a murderer, a ruthless intriguer who cares for nothing but his own designs. He forgives no errors, forgets no slights, and his vengeance is terrible; he answers to neither man nor God –"

"Stop it!" Godric shouted, jumping up and overturning his chair with a great clatter. "For God's sake, just stop it!" He was distressed, overset, tears beginning in his eyes. "Both of you, just…just stop…"

Gryffydd's smile was cruel and satisfied.

Salazar's eyes blazed bright amber, and his nostrils flared as he deliberately tightened his grip further and further, Gryffydd's malice slowly giving way to agony and fear_ – _

"_Please," _Godric begged, his throat tight as the bright, golden happiness of the last week slowly faded into illusion and falsehood.

Salazar met his eyes for a long, long moment, measuring him, measuring the reality of his distress, the strength of his fear; he smiled, thinly, and then abruptly released his grip. Gryffydd collapsed, clutching his abused shoulder and breathing in hoarsely, almost sobbing with pain. Salazar looked down at him with contempt and loathing, and then turned his back on Godric and returned upstairs without a word.

Godric stood alone in the common room, gulping desperately as tears ran down his face.

The Muggle villagers saw nothing.

* * *

A/N - Please don't forget to feed the author. Thank you. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – Another look in at Slytherin. And, of course, at Godric. Let's not forget Godric. I would like to reiterate that this story is NOT slash.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue.

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**Unlikely Brothers 4**

* * *

Godric awoke to find Salazar watching him, his eyes fixed, unblinking, on his face. A little intimidated by such fierce attention, he scrambled backwards, eyes wide –

Salazar smiled. It was a small, crooked smile, so full of quicksilver humour and warmth, that Godric almost fell under his spell again. But he stiffened, determined not to be so easily seduced.

"It won't work," he said firmly. "I know what you are now."

"And what am I?" Salazar asked.

"Gryffydd says –"

"Fuck Gryffydd," he said mildly, with such shocking vulgarity that Godric flinched. "Eight days we've travelled together. Surely you've formed an opinion of me by now."

Godric hesitated. "You're… you're a very complex man."

"Oh?" Godric knew that tone. It was reserved entirely for fools who should know better.

"You've got many sides to your…character," he finished weakly, well aware of how ridiculously inane it sounded. But he did not want to do this. "You're Welsh. You left, fifty years ago, on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And it was there you got your new name."

"Yes, all undeniable facts. But these things alone do not make a man, boy."

Slowly, Godric shook his head. "Why, Salazar? Last night –" Last night, Godric's fragile trust had been shattered. "Why should I care enough to play along?"

* * *

Godric had long since given up trying to win the villagers' trust and friendship. He was tolerated – barely – because the priest had taken him in, but that was as far as charity stretched. He was not part of their world, and they made it more than clear in a thousand different ways – no, not through taunts and jeers, but through sheer indifference – that he was to play no part in their lives. In the end, he had decided that he wanted no part of them, either –

And then had come Salazar, with his talk of another world, his carelessly cynical companionship, his lazy, crooked smile – and his moods and prejudices, his hatreds and his enemies and his fierce, fierce anger. In a way, Salazar's betrayal had been worse than the villagers' had. The villagers had never enthralled him as Salazar had, had never inspired Godric to something so perilously close to love.

* * *

Salazar's smile was wry, rueful, and strangely understanding. "Very well, then – hate me if you must. I told you, days ago, that I am no hero."

"I never…" Godric swallowed. He could not meet the other man's eyes.

"As you will." Salazar stood up with sleek, lithe grace, stretching casually. "I will be leaving in an hour. I've paid our shot, and persuaded the innkeeper's wife to provide you with enough food to last even you until the next village. So, when you are ready, go on your way south-west, Godric Gryffindor."

"What? I thought –" he shot to his feet, kicking his threadbare cloak out of the way. "Aren't you –?"

Salazar turned, halfway out the door. "But I thought you did not care enough to play along."

Godric swallowed. "But that's…that's cruel…"

* * *

Why had he never before seen the power of the expectation in an almost-grown boy's eyes? All that fragile faith, the vulnerable self-esteem as they asked, without words, for something they could not name?

He had been twelve years old, once, and he had looked at an older, more powerful man as Godric looked at him now. Salazar wondered if the Mal-foi had been burned by the hopes and wishes and dreams that he saw in the young, naïve Salazar's eyes.

Yes, it was cruel to bring the boy back to reality, equally hard on both of them as their golden interlude was shattered. But Aethulf's challenge and Gryffydd's accusations had brought him back to reality, and the closer he came to the magical centres of England, the worse it would become. Young Godric would be told – again and again, by any number of interested people – exactly who he had allied himself with, and what Salazar was capable of.

Perhaps it would be better for both of them if they did part company.

But it had been such a very long time since he'd had a companion on his journey…

* * *

"You can't go like this!" Godric burst out, his fists clenched with fierce pride. "You promised…!"

Salazar sighed. "I never said I would take you to the king, boy. I said I was going part of the way."

"You said I could come with you. You said you would protect me."

"No, I most certainly did not –"

"You saved me from the wolf!" Godric shouted. "Even though your hands were shaking, and you were afraid. You protected me. You can't just leave me here on my own!"

Salazar paused for a moment, but shook his head. "You want to be a hero, boy. You won't be one if you come any further with me – you heard what Gryffydd–"

"Fuck Gryffydd!" Salazar winced. "Isn't that what you said? That bare facts do not make a man? Salazar, please!" Godric took a step forward, actually grabbing Salazar's arm, pleading with him, disregarding pride and dignity.

"Godric…" Salazar looked down at him, a very strange expression in his eyes. "You don't know what I am. You don't know what I've done…"

"I know what you are, Salazar," he said desperately. "I know you're not a hero, and that you're moody and bad-tempered and you don't like Saxons or anyone who isn't a wizard, but…" he stopped, swallowed hard against tears, "you waited for me, that day in the village. You scared away the wolf. You taught me about plants and animals and how to see the world – and…and… you're my _friend, _Salazar. Let me go with you. Please. I don't want to see the King. I want to go with you."

Salazar reached out, and slowly pried Godric's hands away from his arm. "Are you very sure that this is what you wish, Godric Gryffindor? Once you have made your decision, there will be no going back."

Godric swallowed again, nodded. He could not go back to the village. He had left that world behind willingly, to follow in Salazar's wake – he could not now imagine continuing on without him by his side. "Yes," he said, as firmly as he could. "Yes, I want to come with you."

Salazar nodded. "As you will it, then. So it will be."

* * *

A/N - This short chapter marks the end of part one of this fic. Feedback, comments, criticism etc are all greatly appreciated. Thanks very much to all who have reviewed before. 


	5. Chapter 5: Interlude

A/N – A last interlude, before jumping ahead a few decades. Introducing Helga Hufflepuff.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. I would like to own Salazar, but I can't see that happening any time soon.

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**Chapter Five – Interlude**

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Apples.

Godric's first impression of Salazar's home was of the heady, almost dizzying scent of apple blossoms in the crisp autumn air. His second impression was the rich texture of the magic that lay thick over the small, hidden valley –

This was Wales, the last remnant of the Britain that Salazar so esteemed, in his dreamier, more romantic moments. Godric thought it pretty, but strangely wild, with odd shadings of darkness and strains of old, old myth.

But always, even years later after everything had fallen apart, he would remember that he first saw it in the golden light of dawn; the heady scent of apple blossoms enough to bring the moment back in all its glorious entirety.

They were hazy golden days, those first months alone with Salazar, when the whole world seemed to shrink to that small valley and the simple farmhouse. Godric absorbed everything that Salazar could teach him, learning of the make-up of the world, of Aristotle's four elements, of natural philosophy and the forces that drove and shaped the physical and magical worlds. As they tramped over the fields and stalked through the forest, as Salazar showed him all the ways of beasts and birds, and spoke, a little, of the greater world outside their little valley, Godric left his Muggle past behind and embraced his new life with all the passion and gusto he could.

But, of course, all idylls must end.

Six months since they first met in the village, and four months since they came to the hidden valley, Salazar's past and Godric's future caught up with them.

* * *

Helga Haraldsdottir laughed at him as he greeted her at the entrance to the valley, brushing dirt and crushed leaf matter from his stained, ragged robes. His own lips curved in response, warming as always to this small, comfortable, matronly woman, her familiar badger Hufflepuff by her side. Despite what Godric might think, Salazar did not despise _all _Saxons.

He was willing to make an exception for Helga.

"So," she said, mock-severely, "this is where you have been hiding. Six months since you have returned, and you have not once come to see me."

"And so _you _have come to see _me?_" He held out his hands, clasped hers in warm welcome. "Should I be flattered?"

"You should," she said frankly. "It took me weeks to find my way through your wards. You've changed them, since –" She flushed, snapped her mouth shut.

"Since my last, ignominious defeat and my humiliating flight?" She winced at the cool, indifferent tone. "Yes. Can you blame me?" He turned, gazing over rich, fertile soil and thick woodland, over his own little paradise in the darkest, most remote depths of the Welsh hills.

"It has been fifty years," she murmured, placing one tentative hand on his arm. "Can you not forgive, even now?"

His eyes came back to hers. She thought, for a breathless moment, that he would finally allow her a glimpse of his innermost thoughts, but he only smiled and gently untangled himself from her grip. "But my dear: I have returned, openly and without ill intent. I have stirred no trouble, and nor do I intend to. I have even taken an apprentice. I am a changed man, content with what I have."

Helga doubted that very much, but held her tongue. It was useless to appeal to him in this humour.

"Come, then," he said, still smiling that sweet, charming smile. "I will show you." He led her further into his sanctuary. They walked in silence for a time, taking in the quiet summer beauty of this land Salazar had been granted, long ago, by his own mentor. "Why are you here?" he asked, finally. "I know you support Aethulf's dream of a governing council."

She sighed. "You know we will be stronger, united in one body." She saw his swift, impatient glance. "I know. You have heard it many times before. But I will say this, my proud friend – if the great lords of this land, secular and magical both, had stood together with the King at Camlann, so many centuries ago –"

"Don't –" he said curtly. "Don't say it."

"Your pride and independence, your ancient rivalries – they betrayed you then, and they betray you now. But I did not actually come here to convert you, my dear."

The sweet, quizzical smile returned; he had rebuilt his composure. "Oh?"

"I came to speak to your apprentice."

* * *

They found him in the conservatory.

It had been so long since Godric had met anyone from the outside world that he felt quite shy, facing the motherly, smiling woman Salazar called Helga. Wiping his hands free of the valley's rich, thick soil, he held them out to her, trying to suppress both his awkward shyness and a sense of shock.

She was Saxon, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that Salazar was greatly fond of her. Stealing a sidelong glance at his mentor, Godric encountered Salazar's eyes, quizzical, wry, and quite unyielding –

"Yes, Godric, I am indeed of Saxon stock," Helga sighed, taking his hands and recapturing his attention. "Surely, by now you've realized how capricious Salazar is? There's no need to be awkward. If you've lived alone with him for six months, I will forgive you."

He managed a smile, a clumsy bow, and a stammered apology. She only smiled.

"And now, young Gryffindor, if your mentor will forgive me, I would like to speak to you." She raised a brow at Salazar, who bowed and murmured his permission.

Godric stared after him as he left the conservatory, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

"Are you afraid I'll attack you as Gryffydd and Edgar did, my dear?" Helga asked, her voice soft and understanding.

Godric turned back to her. "How did you…?"

"How did I know?" She shook her head. "Every move that Salazar makes is watched with great interest. He is a very powerful wizard, with very influential connections – or else he was, fifty years ago, before he was broken. Even now, he casts a very long shadow."

"He won't tell me what happened."

"No. No, I'm not surprised – it's not a very edifying tale, I'm afraid. Salazar is…he is a man who feels very deeply, who reacts very strongly…"

"You talk like it was a good thing he was exiled," Godric blurted out, his eyes hard and suspicious. "I thought you liked him. I know he likes you –"

She held up a hand, stemming the flow. Her eyes were dark and compassionate, her smile as wry as Salazar's, without his quizzical, leavening humour. "I do like him, child. But he is stubborn, and proud, and independent, sometimes too much so for his own good. Trouble – no, not trouble, but chance and uncertainty – follows him wherever he goes. It was easier on all of us when he was out, causing trouble in the Holy Land –"

"The Wizengamot," he breathed. "You support the Wizengamot."

"Yes," she answered frankly. "Yes, I do. And so do many other wizards in this land, but for a stubborn few such as Salazar. –Oh, don't worry for him, child, he knows my mind. He has known it all along. Which brings me, finally, to the reason for this conversation."

She paused as he calmed his racing heart, telling himself over and over that Salazar would never have left her alone with him if he thought her a threat.

"It is the custom of wizards under the Wizengamot's aegis to seek the Council's approval before taking an apprentice. While Salazar's bitter opposition to us is very well known, your obvious Saxon blood caused some concern, when it was reported. Gryffydd, especially, was afraid that you were with Salazar against your will, and indicated that you were distressed by some of Salazar's actions during your meeting at the inn."

Flushing, Godric remembered the terrible, naked antagonism between Gryffydd and Salazar, and his own reaction to it. But…

"I don't understand," he said slowly. "If Salazar opposes the Council, then why should their rules apply to me? Are you trying to use my blood to get back at Salazar, or to gain some sort of control over him?" He had watched the petty maneouvrings of the village council before, the headman and the priest and the more important farmers all vying for small advantages. He did not like the taste of this game at all.

Helga shook her head. "Godric… Don't lay your heart and soul at Salazar's feet. He's not worthy of it, my dear. His dreams, his ideals, are all long dead and gone, and in these troubled times we need to look to the future. I'm not trying to turn you against him, or to take you away from him –"

"Then don't," he said curtly, interrupting her. "Please. Don't say anymore. You've said enough…" She looked at him with those troubled, compassionate eyes. But he could not bear them any longer and stormed rudely out of the conservatory, fleeing from a vaguely sensed shadow.

Her words, though he denied them, echoed repeatedly in his mind, raising doubts he would rather forget, and thoughts he would rather suppress. Salazar's valley, so peaceful and enchanting before, now appeared to be stifling, a crystallized, prison where the past was kept against the world's will.

He had always thought Salazar a little mad. It was no comfort to find out that the rest of the world agreed with him…

* * *

"Well?" Salazar drawled, later, as Helga prepared to depart. "What have you done to my apprentice?"

She sighed. "I have shaken his faith in you, old friend. For his own good – and for yours."

Briefly, his mouth tightened in annoyance at her meddling. But he could have stopped her at any moment during her interview, could have kept her from finding his valley in the first place, and he had not. Some things were inevitable.

"That boy loves far too easily," she warned him. "It will be a problem later on."

"It will be a problem all his life," he corrected her. "He will never outgrow it." For a moment, he paused, before speaking again. "Helga. Don't you know you can trust me?"

She stopped, turned to face him. "Once," she said coolly, "I believed that I could. However, this is not about you and I anymore, Salazar. It's not even about you and the boy. Things have gone too far for that."

He smiled, that sweet, wry, rueful smile, the one that never failed to break her heart. "I know," he said. "I know."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

A/N – With a wave of my author's wand, a few strokes of the keyboard, I skip forward twenty-five years.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue.

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**Chapter 6**

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925

London.

Bustling, prosperous London, filthy and reeking, Roman ruins like old ghosts seen from the corner of Godric's eyes – _south and west, _Salazar had told him, once, long ago. _Seek your king in the south-west, where he quaffs mead like a drunkard and stumbles out of his seat to piss in the corner of his drafty, reeking hall…_

Godric had imagined he spoke of London, and of a king ruling over all the land. But Salazar had meant Ethelred of Ely, a petty king, because there were no true Kings anymore –

_There has only ever been one King of this land, Godric-lad. And one day he will return._

But rumour spoke of Athelstan, now. Alfred's grandson, ruler of Wessex through his father, Mercia through his aunt, and all the lands south of the Humber; he had a sister wed to ailing, heirless Sihtric of Northumberland, and was only waiting for the old man to die. This Athelstan was no petty chieftain quaffing mead in a filthy hall. He was strong, and ruthless, ambitious to expand his holdings and consolidate his rule…

"Ho, Godric-lad!" a great, booming voice called. "I had thought you in Byzantium!"

He turned to see Beorn, a great, golden, shaggy giant with legs like tree trunks and a magnificent beard. Like his animal the bear, Beorn was fierce when roused, and sleepily good-natured when left alone.

"Ho, Beorn," Godric answered, striding over. They clasped forearms, and then met in a rib-crushing embrace. "Yes," he said, wheezing a little as they parted, "I returned just yesterday."

Nearly eight years roaming the world, travelling and observing different lands and different cultures, seeing for himself the lands he'd only read about in Salazar's books, or heard about from traveller's tales. He'd studied at the feet of foreign masters, but out of curiosity, not a genuine thirst for knowledge; he'd ventured into the wildest, most remote corners of the earth, not in search of enlightenment, but adventure. He'd been a mercenary, a merchant, a pirate, an explorer. He'd loved a woman, and lost her, and met heroes and villains and boon-companions –

Until finally, he'd felt the urge to feel the cool morning mist on his face, to hear his native language again, and to smell the apple blossoms of Salazar's perfect little valley. When he felt his heart turn towards home, he knew that it was time to return…

"So, so, you are a man wise in the ways of the world now," Beorn said, holding him out to survey him, head to toe. "No longer the scrawny boy I first saw, trailing along wide-eyed behind your master."

Godric sighed. The first time Salazar had taken him to Diagon Alley, he'd been so stunned by the busy streets around him that he'd trailed behind, and lost his way. Beorn had rescued him, and restored him to an irritated Salazar, with a warning to take better care of his apprentice next time. Godric still wasn't sure who'd been the most surprised: Salazar, to be so rebuked by a Saxon, or Beorn, when he discovered the identity of Godric's master.

"Thank you," he said sourly.

"Come, Gryffindor," Beorn coaxed, laughing. "Come, laugh with me – we will talk, you and I. Tell me of your travels, and I will tell you what has happened since you left."

Together, Beorn's brawny arm thrown heavily across his shoulders, they made their way towards the tavern. As people recognized Godric and called their own greetings, they stopped and talked, and picked up company on the way –

Yes, it was good to be home.

* * *

"Your apprentice has returned from his travels," Helga Hufflepuff called out to him, from outside the stillroom. "He is very much the man now. Such shoulders…!"

Salazar, engaged in a very delicate distillation, only grunted. There was a moment of silence, before Helga – losing patience, as he knew she would – pushed open the door and came in. There was nothing forbidden to her, here – Salazar did not take lovers easily, and when he did, he kept nothing from them.

Finally, when he was done he set down his tools and picked up a rag, making sure to wipe his hands thoroughly. "He is too young for you, Helga," he said dryly. "Are my shoulders not enough?"

She laughed merrily, a kind, practical, no-nonsense woman with no illusions about him or the world they lived in. "Salazar, my dear, your shoulders are perfectly adequate. But you are not Saxon, nor a seasoned warrior, nor only thirty-six years of age. There is no comparison."

He grinned, a slow, crooked smile; it was the rarest and most sincere of his various expressions. "Helga," he warned, pretending to growl and stalk her, "you, of all people, should know that youth and muscles are not everything. I assure you, experience and single-mindedness are just as important..."

She shrieked with laughter when he pounced.

* * *

They had progressed from traveller's tales to boasts of battles fought and women won. Beorn told of his many summers on the Viking road with his Norwegian kindred, and the big, buxom woman who had caught him one day, and forced him to serve her at swordspoint. Godric recounted his tale of a sophisticated Italian from Ravenna and his dark-eyed daughter Rosalba, whom he had called Rowena, and the week where he had almost been killed six times in a row.

The ale and mead flowed freely, as did the laughter and song and the strong, intoxicating sense of companionship. This was what he missed – the outside world was very well, but it did not replace the faces and friends of his youth. Of course, after as much alcohol as he had consumed, all was surrounded by a lovely golden haze…

"So," Beorn roared after draining a tankard and slamming it down on the table, "why did you come back, Gryffindor-lad?"

Godric, grinning stupidly, drained his own tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Bad habit," he managed, only slurring his words a little. "Sh- _Sa_lashzar would be upset. Missed that."

"You missed his criticism?"

"No." Adamant, he shook his head. "No no no. Missed _him. _An' you. An' Helga. Even – even mished t'argu-argunem-argu_ments_. Aethulf," he said, as if it explained everything.

It did. To anyone who knew either Godric or Slytherin, who knew the often-rocky nature of their differences, the name Aethulf of the merest mention of the Wizengamot was a matter of extreme caution.

Beorn considered him affectionately. Word would have got back to Slytherin by now, and he doubted that the timing of Godric's return would go unnoticed. Still, young Gryffindor was no fool, and despite his deep-rooted affection for the Welsh schemer, he had no illusions about him…

Ah, well. He was a grown man now.

* * *

"You know why he's come back, don't you?" Salazar murmured, his eyes closed as he lay, relaxed and half-asleep, on his fur-covered bed.

Nestled against him, Helga nodded. "I know. Athelstan."

Athelstan, in whom Aethulf and his friends saw hope of a royal patron. Athelstan, whose armies could meet and even match the invading Scots and Vikings, so that he could enforce law and order in a way no other Saxon king before him ever could. Salazar had no heart for politics at the moment, but he and Godric had butted heads over such things too many times to recount –

"He will go his own way," he said wryly, "and nothing and no one will stop him."

Helga laughed, low and smoky. "He is _your_ apprentice, my dear. He had independence and determination before you took him in, but you shaped him, honed him, taught him how to use what he had – is it any wonder he is like you?"

"He is not like me, Helga. He is…" he paused, searching for clarification.

She interrupted him, rolling over to face him, to look up into his eyes and make him see. "He is a reflection of you and your teachings, Salazar, and of his own, very different childhood, and of all the tests and experiences he has undergone since he left you. He is popular, you say, and well loved – well, and so were you before your fall, in your happier, more carefree days. Charm he had already, but eloquence and intrigue he learned from you."

"Well-loved? You would not look at me – before."

"No." Unaccountably, she flushed. "I was…there were…" But Salazar was not the only one who could be devious. She put her hand on his chest, slid it down, down, down…

Soon all talk of Godric and politics was abandoned for other, more interesting matters.

* * *

In the morning, Godric woke with a fierce headache.

The tavern-keep, familiar with the treatment of such ailments, merely plunked a foul-smelling herbal brew down on the table beside him. Godric winced, but – also familiar with the treatment of such ailments – forced himself to down the tonic in one hurried gulp. In a few moments, the aching throbbing lessened, and he was able to lift his head without fear of its exploding.

The bench beside him shuddered, bowing under the sudden addition of a great weight. Beorn, who never suffered from hangovers, patted him clumsily on the back, and Godric could feel the spell he cast sink through his flesh and into his very blood, easing the pain and dehydration.

"Thank you," he muttered, opening his eyes and peering up at the gentle giant.

Beorn laughed again. "So. The truth, lad – did you come back to meet Athelstan?"

Godric nodded. He had come back to realize a life-long dream that was now, finally, within their reach: peace, and order, and justice for all. An end to hiding and fear, and to a unity held back and divided by wizards who held to their pride and hard-won independence no matter how often it was explained to them that they could no longer stand alone.

Yes, he had come back to meet Athelstan, and to lay his sword at the King's feet.

"Well, then. Clean yourself up, Gryffindor, and I will introduce you to Aethulf. And then we will all talk, a little, before we decide on a course of action."

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N - **10th Oct - I have changed 'Danes' to Vikings, for easier reading and interpretation. Thanks go to Thessaly.

**Disclaimer – **I don't own HP, or any of its canon characters or concepts. Don't sue.

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**Chapter 7**

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"So," Beorn said, prowling by his side, "it is something to see, is it not?"

Godric gazed about at the royal seat of Winchester. It was small in comparison to Rome, Byzantium, and the other ancient centres of the world that Godric had seen on his restless travels. But all around him were tall, burly earls and thanes, their long, luxurious hair and roaring, blustering voices a reminder of his far childhood, before lithe, dark Salazar adopted him. He could speak any number of languages, but the rich, guttural Saxon was good to hear, fulfilling some need deep inside him.

"Yes," he answered simply. "It is."

By his other side, Aethulf snorted. "What I want to know, Gryffindor," he sneered, "is whether you are wholly with us in this venture."

Godric said nothing, merely strolled ahead, blending in with the Muggle noblemen. With his height, his breadth, and his thick red hair and beard, he made a handsome, imposing figure. "Would I be here," he asked finally, after they had cleared the main throng, "if I were not with you? I honour Salazar as my mentor and foster-father, but that does not mean I agree with everything he says."

Beorn smothered a sudden bark of laughter. But Aethulf glared, unconvinced. Before the old leader could comment further, however, the royal herald tapped his staff three times on the floor and announced the King's arrival.

Athelstan swept in, and the whole court bowed. Studying the king's strong, muscular build underneath the thick, rich robes, his face noble and authoritative under the beard, Godric recognized the Warrior-King of his childhood dreams and fancies – fancies nurtured, though perhaps not intentionally, by Salazar's tales of Arthur and the great Lords. He doubted his old mentor would appreciate the reminder.

"Rise, rise," Athelstan said briskly, his manner straightforward and business-like. "We have much to get through today – let us not waste the day in formalities." Impatiently, he sat down on the throne. "Now who is first?"

A short, squat man with soot and char-black ingrained in his calloused hands stepped forward, bowed, and identified himself as Edric Sigisson. He brought a complaint against Edgar Wlnothsson, the carter, whom he claimed had cheated him repeatedly.

The various audiences and hearings progressed smoothly. Four days each year, the king held his quarterly hearings, where any man – high or low – could approach the throne and appeal to the king's justice. Godric, Beorn and Aethulf were near the end of the line, and they had good opportunity to observe Athelstan in his role – he listened closely to every complaint and appeal, and gave his judgment quickly and decisively, allowing no dissent or outcry against it.

Once made up, his mind was set; once given, his word was final.

Finally, it was their turn. Aethulf stepped forward, Godric and Beorn flanking him, and spoke in a deep, resonant voice at complete odds with his aged, hoary countenance.

"Athelstan King," he began, "renowned throughout the land, I come to offer my help, and that of my fellows, against the cursed Vikings."

* * *

"I have heard of you, of course," Athelstan said, much later, in a private audience. "Men, living among us but separate, with awesome powers. I thought you a myth."

"Indeed, my lord, we are no myth," Aethulf answered. He drew himself up to his full height and drew out his wand and, with a grand, flamboyant gesture, transfigured the small side table against the wall into a roaring, snarling lion. With a dismissive flick of his wand, he changed it into a flock of doves, and then into a hissing, spitting snake, and then back to its original form.

The king's bodyguards shouted in alarm, half-drawing their swords, but subsided at a gesture from their master. Athelstan, Godric noted, had only blinked and started, before regaining his normal composure.

Aethulf stared at the king expectantly. "That is only a small demonstration of our capabilities, my lord."

"Indeed?" Athelstan raised a brow. "And what else can you do, master wizard? You say you will help me drive out the invaders – how will these parlour tricks help defeat armies that number in the thousands?"

Though his words were skeptical, his eyes were thoughtful, calculating – this was a man who saw before him a great opportunity.

"My lord," Aethulf answered, "we are capable of far more than petty parlour tricks. We can influence the weather, lead men's minds onto the paths of madness, and turn the very matter of creation to our own ends – if you so wish it, we will be Merlin to your Arthur…"

* * *

The word spread.

Upon their return to London, young, impulsive wizards flocked to join Aethulf's war, all eager to prove themselves and gain eternal fame and glory. Beorn, who had long decades of experience in difficult, dangerous endeavours, wanted to restrain their group to experienced, steady wizards who knew how to work with Muggles, but Aethulf overruled him, arguing that they had no right to turn anyone away who wished to help in this vital struggle.

Beorn did not look pleased, but he let it go.

On the eve of their departure, some two weeks after their return from Winchester, Godric was busy organizing the last minute details of their journey, poring over lists and maps, making sure that everything was ready for the morrow, when he felt a familiar presence behind him.

"In the three short weeks since your return, Godric-lad, you have set the whole land on its ear. London speaks of nothing but your brave venture."

Godric smiled. He had known this was coming. "Hello, Salazar," he replied calmly, turning around to behold his old mentor and foster-father. "You look very well."

It was true. Like all pureblooded wizards, Salazar's lifespan was measured in centuries, rather than decades; though it had been nearly ten years since Godric last saw him, he was unchanged, but for a few more grey hairs and deeper-set grooves around those strange yellow eyes.

"You haven't changed," Godric continued, smiling, despite the harsh words that had lain between them at their last parting. In those last, contentious years, there had always been harsh words – but there had been good times, as well.

"You have," Salazar murmured, stepping closer, reaching out – reaching _up_ – to grasp Godric's shoulder. "You left a boy, and returned a man." He smiled, the genuine warmth of it enfolding Godric like a familiar embrace.

But Godric knew better, now, than to be ensnared by Salazar's charm.

"Yes, I am a man," he said, pulling away, deliberately putting distance between them. "Capable of making my own decisions, and seeing them through – whether for good or ill. My mind is set on this."

"So." Acknowledging the distance, Salazar stepped away, his smile fading. "You would willingly follow Aethulf into this. He is a fool, his eyes fixed on political goals, rather than military ones –"

"I know Aethulf's mind, Salazar. But Beorn is no fool."

"Beorn is a mercenary. He would fight for the Vikings, if it profited him."

"He is _not –_" Gritting his teeth, Godric bit back the hot, angry words. Beorn _was _a mercenary, but in this, he was firmly on Aethulf's side. He, too, desired a unified England and the efficiency and order it entailed. He had a vested interest in it – he planned to hang up his sword soon, and wished to live to a conflict-free old age.

"That does not make him any less a leader. He knows war, both the physical and magical sides of it – we could have no better guide." He looked at Salazar's flat, skeptical expression, knew that the older man would not give in easily. "Everything you have said, and probably everything you will say, I have gone over it all, Salazar. Aethulf is a spider, but a powerful, influential one, and I believe his Wizengamot is necessary for our survival. If there is a price, I am willing to pay it, but this king will provide the peace and order we need – if we can keep him alive."

Their eyes met – Salazar's strange, often mad yellow eyes staring into his. Godric held the older man's gaze steadily, calm and resolved now that he had set his mind on a course of action. Then, smiling wryly, Salazar conceded. Stepping back, his robes swirling about him, he turned to leave. But just before he vanished out of existence, he paused, looked over his shoulder, and spoke.

"It's a dangerous thing, Godric, using magic as a weapon. You find yourself on a very slippery slope, as killing and atrocities become easier and easier… Don't lose yourself, Godric-lad."

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**A/N – **Thanks to all my reviewers. Feedback of any sort is greatly appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N – **Godric at war.

**Disclaimer – **I don't own HP, any of the canon settings, characters or situations.

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**Chapter Eight**

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"The war is going well," the king said one day in council. "We have pushed them back, and soon we will send them fleeing back to their long-ships."

"Yes," one of the eorls answered. "But it is not enough to send them fleeing. They will only return once again next year, and with more men."

Godric, sore and exhausted, could only agree. Every year the Vikings came, and every year they gained ground a little, or they were pushed back – but no matter the outcome of the raiding season, they always returned.

Athelstan grinned fiercely, his teeth glinting sharp and white, though his hair was matted and tangled, and his face still bore streaks of dirt and blood. There had been no time for bathing or cleanliness, in the last three months of rain and mud and grime; none of them – not even the king – looked their best. "That is why we must have a victory," he said, his eyes proud and fierce. "A great victory that the bards will sing of for generations, and that will put the fear of God into the heathen barbarians.

"There will be no better time for it," Athelstan continued. "Our forces and the support of our allies will never be greater. It _must_ be this season. The timing and momentum is ours, if we can only reach out to take it.

"At Brunanburgh, my friends," the king finished. "We will meet them in strength at Brunanburgh, and there we will defeat them, once and for all."

_

* * *

_

_3 months later_

A long, long time ago, Salazar had given him a glimpse into the old, tired bitterness that had sent him fleeing his homeland into exile.

"_Like all mortal tools, magic is not infallible – and wolves have sharp teeth."_

Stumbling over the great, crow-covered battlefield, Godric remembered Salazar's grim words of advice. Then, as now, it had been late, very late, and the night had been black and mysterious – but Godric was not sitting safely around a campfire now, warm, dry and satisfied. No, tonight he was picking through the tumbled, grotesquely twisted bodies of the dead, fighting off insanely bold crows and starved, predatory dogs, half-delirious with shock and fever as he searched for the bodies of his companions.

Athelstan had won both the day and the war, but at horrific cost – especially to his magical allies. At the beginning of the campaign, when the Vikings realized that the Saxons were using magic, they had found wizards of their own. During the battle today, when Aethulf gave the order to begin hurling spells, the Viking wizards had turned their own magic back upon them, creating a vicious backlash that had smashed through Godric's and Beorn's ranks. Then the Muggle warriors had poured in, with their sharp swords and monstrous axes, and all their elaborate training and elegant magic had been rendered useless against cold iron and brute strength.

Godric had managed to snatch up a sword and smash his way through, but others who had no weapons training and no prior experience of fighting for their lives had died screaming and begging, spitted like capons on the marauders' swords. It had been a slaughter, pure and simple. Aethulf was dead, and Cole, their healer, and the twin brothers who had come to him and begged to follow him, though they were not yet eighteen –

They should not have been here, on this slaughter-field where the damned held sway.

Twenty years ago, a reckless, naïve boy, he'd accused Salazar of cowardice.

He was not so sure, now.

Cruel laughter, catcalls and mocking taunts drew his attention to a gathering of thanes and warriors, crowded around something on the ground. "Ho, Gryffindor!" Godwine, a great, burly West Saxon with whom he'd become marginally friendly, hailed him cheerfully and called him over. "Come! There is something you must see."

Wearily, he trudged over to Godwine's side, the circle of warriors parting to let him in. "What is it?" he asked, his voice hoarse and thin, blinking in the flickering light of their crude rush torches. He had no energy left for light of his own.

"It is one of their magic-workers," one of the warriors grunted, his face cruel in the uncertain light. Casually, he kicked at the shivering lump cowering on the ground. As Godric's eyes focused, he saw that the lump was in fact a man, an old, emaciated man with wild, terrified eyes. "We saved him for you."

Godric looked up. They were all watching him, their eyes hard and expectant. They had all seen what had happened to him and his men today; in a way, it was a sign of their esteem that they gave him this foe so that he could exact his vengeance.

"Cursed witches," Godwine grunted. "We should kill them all; rid the earth of their foul pestilence." He clapped Godric on the shoulder, grinned. "Not you, though, eh? You and your men, Gryffindor, you're ours. You're the King's man, now, like us."

Godric looked back to the pathetic, sniveling old man, at his tattered, ruined robes and the hedge charms and amulets clattering around his skinny neck. He was barely more than a squib, relying more on superstition and cryptic ritual than skill and training.

"Are they all like this one?" he asked blankly.

The first warrior laughed. "They _were. _Filthy, skinny looking wretches, screaming and begging, chanting and pointing their sticks – but enough numbers and cold steel did the trick; they died just like mortal men."

Godric drew in a long, deep breath, and wondered whether, somehow, somewhere, he had made a very great mistake.

* * *

A/N - Next chapter: Godric returns home. More Salazar. And maybe even some Helga.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N – Enter Rowena. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers – and sincere apologies for the short chapter.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the characters, settings or situations. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Helga Hrarsdottir, clad in old, drab working clothes, did not look like the daughter of a powerful Saxon wizard, or the widow of a lord even more powerful. But then appearances were deceiving, as Godric well knew; beneath that capable, homely façade lay a kind heart, a shrewd mind, and a streak of quiet, determined will.

Over the years, Godric had learned to appreciate all three.

"Have I compromised my honour?" Godric asked, pacing back and forth on the gravelled paths of Helga's herb gardens. "I feel as though I lost something, in the war."

Helga, her strong, capable hands covered in rich dirt, merely grunted, her attention focused on plucking out weeds. But it was not a genuine answer Godric sought, merely a sounding board, an audience.

"The Viking magic-workers were little more than hedge wizards. Those men hunted them down and slaughtered them like dogs, and then clapped me on the back and named me one of them. King's man. King's wizard. Was that dangerous, do you think?"

There was no answer for a very long time. And then Helga sat back on her knees and brushed tendrils of damp, sweaty hair out of her face. "You always wanted to be a hero, Godric. And now you know the price of it. Tell me," she said, fixing him with her shrewd, direct gaze, "why did you go to war?"

He scowled, crossed his arms. "To drive off the Vikings," he answered, defensive. And, because he had always been scrupulously honest with Helga, "To gain the King's favour, and encourage his patronage of the wizarding world."

"Well," she said. "Well."

Salazar would have mocked him. But there was no irony in Helga's eyes, nothing but understanding –

"You must do as you see fit, Godric Gryffindor."

* * *

Rosalba of Ravenna rose gracefully from her hipbath, candlelight and the guttering fire painting her in glorious shades of gold as fragrant water streamed down her white breasts and silken belly. Her maids hovered around her, one silently holding out a long, silken robe, the other offering a goblet of mulled, spiced wine on a silver tray – impatiently, she waved them away before sitting down at her mirror and staring intently at her reflection in the silvered glass.

She was twenty-eight years old, had outlived two husbands and poisoned a third. Her ivory pale skin was smooth, her body gloriously sleek, and her great, liquid dark eyes had driven one poor, romantic fool to suicide – and yet it was not enough to satisfy her, not enough to fulfil the strange emptiness inside her.

Beauty was power, yes, but it was a power that men _gave _women, that they _allowed _them.

She wanted more. She wanted _everything. _

And she knew exactly how she was going to take it.

* * *

He returned to London reluctantly, unwilling to face the gathering sycophants and hero-worshippers, and even less eager to deal with the ambitious power mongers who wished to use his new-minted reputation for their own ends.

Salazar had taught him to be wary of puppet-masters.

And so when the talk of wizarding society was of the beautiful Italian noblewoman but newly come to London, he began to feel distinctly uneasy.

"Who is she?" Bjorn asked him late one evening, as they sat before a warm fire and drank companionably.

Godric smiled. "Rosalba, her name is," he said softly. "But I called her Rowena, when I knew her…"

"Rowena?" Bjorn tilted his head, raised a brow.

"Hengest's daughter," Godric answered, his smile soft and bemused. "A golden witch in a crimson gown, working her singing magic, casting her spell over poor, foolish Vortigern…"

"The apples," Bjorn said, suddenly understanding. "_You_ gave them to her." He'd thought the golden wires that wrapped Rosalba's midnight dark braids an unusual ornament; at the end of every chain was a tiny, perfectly made apple that chimed with every movement she made.

"Yes," Godric admitted. "I thought her beautiful – once."

* * *

A/N – "A golden witch in a crimson gown" is taken from Rosemary Sutcliff's "The Lantern Bearers".


End file.
